


Oh, Darling, The Things I Do To Get Your Attention

by aqqrieved



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Hotel, The Borrowers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Borrowers Fusion, Angst, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Murder, OMC is small, Pining, Size Difference, Vore, fluff if u squint, idk what else to tag, murder boyfriends, this is AHS after all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 05:29:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5363105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqqrieved/pseuds/aqqrieved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, while he hacked away at the inside of a middle aged businessman, he planned. He planned on how to reveal himself; he’d wear his nicest shirt and pants, maybe even wear his shoes, and he’d even make a bowtie to go with the suspenders he’d made last fall out of boredom. He’d swing down from the chandelier, or maybe lean casually against the television-- </p><p>“You know, there’s a cop staying here. You ought to shut this one up.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Met While He Was Murdering A Middle Aged Businessman

**Author's Note:**

> i feel horrible about writing this but like  
> i dont at the same time
> 
> help

The thick, metallic smell of blood surrounded him, seeping into his clothes and staining his skin. Skin pulsed around him, screams deafening him as he drew his knife elegantly across his victim’s esophagus. His feet lodged themselves in the walls of his victim’s throat, choking them. They tried to swallow, but, while it was certainly causing him an inconvenience, it was ineffective.

Oh, how he _loved_ being small.

Winston Tucker smiled maniacally as he cut away the bottom of his victim’s vocal chords to make room for himself to get through. At this point, many questions would be asked. For example, why is this Winston character so incredibly small? Well, that’s a simple question. He’s a borrower. A species of humanoid creatures standing around 5 inches tall, living in the walls and ‘borrowing’ the items no one would miss. Fortunately for Winston, no one paid attention to his survival, instead focusing on the constant stream of murder. ‘Are there others?’ is a popular question. No, there aren’t. At least, not in the hotel he lives in, there aren’t.

Winston killed them all.

Another question usually asked is, well, ‘what in _God’s_ name is happening here?’ Another simple question, really. Once Winston had killed all of the other borrowers, there was no one else to kill. And he needed _some_ form of entertainment, now, didn’t he? So, he came up with a brilliant plan; the hotel was already filled to the brim with murderers, so why not add another? Who would miss the ungrateful, oversized bundles of meat who checked in, anyway? Why put such an opportunity to waste?

So, he crept out while they were sleeping. He waited until a _very_ specific time to kill them; 2:25 A.M.. Why so specific? My, so many questions. Why else, than a desperate attempt to see James Patrick March himself? He is, in fact, the _greatest_ murderer of his time.

See, Winston had developed a certain... _obsession_ with Mr. March. He was desperate to catch the attention of the man, to prove his worth, to be _recognized_ for his work. He knew that March saw his finished product, of course; he was the one who cleaned it up, after all. But Winston could never catch him. He was always too far, too busy, and too slow. He could always see March smiling, appreciating the handiwork, _admiring_ the way it had come from the _inside,_ and how the inner throat was torn apart marvelously. Winston could often hear him mutter to himself, about how _brilliant_ and _remarkable_ his work was. How there was absolutely _no_ pattern. There was no certain room, no set of people. It was beautiful.

Sometimes Winston would drag himself up to March’s room, sitting in the walls and building the courage to reveal himself, to put a face and a name to his art. But, he never could bring himself to. He would even lug himself up the walls to sit on the chandelier on Devil’s Night; the one night of the year that Winston could _pretend_ he belonged. He listened to them talk about how great things were in their day. He envied them, wished that he could have a spot at the table and talk about the thrill of worming his way down a living throat, and the adrenaline rush as he lands with a _splash_ in a puddle of stomach acid as he tears his victim apart. He wanted to brag about the scars on his arms and legs from the white-hot burning pain of the _acid_ drenching his skin, wanted to gloat about how _good_ it felt.

He wanted _friends._

When he started to get older, reaching about the age of 28, he realized that while March was immortal, _he_ was _not._ And, if he ever _did_ manage to introduce himself and make the serial killer fall in love with _him_ and not his _work,_ it wouldn’t be a very everlasting experience. So, he decided that it was probably time to reveal himself, fulfill his wishes, and then get March to do whatever it is he had to do to make him immortal because there were _so_ many more people for Winston to kill, so much for him to see. It was time for him to finally stop hiding.

So, while he hacked away at the inside of a middle aged businessman, he planned. He planned on how to reveal himself; he’d wear his nicest shirt and pants, maybe even wear his _shoes,_ and he’d even make a bow tie to go with the suspenders he’d made last fall out of boredom. He’d swing down from the chandelier, or maybe lean casually against the television--

“You know, there’s a cop staying here. You ought to shut this one up.”

Winston froze in his movements; even through the layer of skin he hadn’t yet cleared, he would’ve been able to pick out that voice in a _heartbeat._ His heart sped up, his palms sweaty against the hilt of his knife. Frantically, almost _embarrassedly,_ he ran back up through the businessmen’s ribcage, coming to a stop next to his fast-beating heart, which was larger than he was. He drove the hilt into a sensitive spot, listening as the man’s screaming halted, cut off by a choked gasp. He stood, breathing heavily, and waited for some sort of response.

“Brilliant. But, where _are_ you?” James Patrick March muttered. He walked toward the body, his footsteps slow, heavy, and deliberate. Winston’s heart fluttered in his chest as he yanked the knife from the man’s heart. He made his way nervously, but casually, back to the spot of skin he’d been working away at, like he wasn’t walking through a body, but rather a hallway. He began to cut away at the final layer of skin, flinching as the bright light reached his eyes. 

James March looked even more angelic up close, Winston noted, his arms hanging limply at his sides. His curly brown hair, currently matted with blood, fell into his eyes as he stared at March, black eyes boring into brown. March grinned.

“Absolutely remarkable,” he praised, crouching down to get a better look at the borrower. “All this time, it was _you_ leaving all of these _incredible_ works of art! I never could have guessed! A tiny person! Ha!”

Winston stood still, gazing shyly at the face of a man he’d been dreaming of meeting for years. He decided he’d better not skimp out on the dramatics; this wasn’t the meeting of preference, of course, but it’d have to do.

“Winston Tucker, at your service,” he smirked, stepping toward the edge of the bed and holding out an introductory hand. March, fascinated, reached out his index finger. Winston took the finger in both of his hands and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the pad of the digit and releasing. March grinned wider, retracting his hand.

“Nice to make your acquaintance, _Winston._ I’m--”

“James Patrick March. I know _exactly_ who you are.”

“Ah, so you’ve heard of my work. Where do you come from, little one?”

“I’ve lived in this hotel my entire life,” Winston told him, spinning on his heel and climbing back into the body.

“Then why on _Earth_ have I not seen you before?” March inquired, leaning forward onto the bed to get a better look at the small man’s actions.

Winston shrugged, grabbing a hold of the far end of the businessman’s intestine in a routine to gain March’s attention, before realizing that it was no longer of importance. He discarded the intestine, wiping his hands on his blood-soaked shirt. A very counterproductive task, he deduced as he pulled his hands back with more blood on them than before.

“I guess you’ve just never paid attention, have you? Now, could you be a _darling_ and get me to the sink? This blood is drying _quite_ uncomfortably, and I am _drenched_ in saliva and stomach acid,” he asked, hands on hips and looking up at the larger man. March nodded, a simple ‘of course’ spilling from his plump lips. He wondered briefly how he was going to go about this, but he just held out a flattened palm and Winston walked right on. March stood and made his way to the bathroom, turning on the sink.

After making sure the water wasn’t too hot or cold, he placed Winston down in the sink, watching curiously as the man rinsed the blood off of himself. “I used to _hate_ blood, as a child,” Winston recalled. “I got nauseous every time I even _looked_ at the stuff. But now, I’ve become used to it. Grown _fond,_ even, of the smell and the texture, even the taste.” March just watched him, fascinated by all of his tiny limbs moving, all of the muscles contracting and relaxing. He eyed Winston’s curly hair, watched the blood-tinted water drip from every lock.   

He liked Winston, March decided, and smiled down at the borrower. They’re going to be good friends. And maybe even more.

 


	2. Devil's Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Winston Tucker, at your service,” he said. 
> 
> “Pleasure to meet you, Winston. I’m a big fan of your work.” 
> 
> “Well, you’ll hear more about it tonight! It’s Winston’s first Devil’s Night!” March declared. Winston swelled with pride. “In fact, we’ve got _two_ first-timers tonight.”

Winston’s life had changed for the better since March had found him. He’d yet to reveal his romantic feelings for the larger man, due to him having a wife--and a very possessive one at that, even though she didn’t love him. That made Winston livid; he wouldn’t be able to love James openly without risking his  _ life,  _ which would be counterproductive, and she was off with a different whore anytime ranging from every other decade to every other week, while Winston sat here, suffering, watching his love suffer. 

Straying away from his love life, Winston’s life changed in other ways, too. He was out in the open, even going so far as to meet everyone else. Liz Taylor was probably his favorite. He spent a good deal of his time down at the bar. He explored more, and based on his carefree, curious, slightly childish, and polite personality, you'd never have guessed that he spent the rest of his free time carving the insides of the hotel's temporary occupants. The rest of the staff saw March more often now that Winston was about, as well. He was always close behind the small man, asking questions and watching his every move with extreme curiosity. 

Most of Winston's dreams came true; instead of hiding in the walls to listen to March talk, he could explore the room freely and listen, even adding insight. He was guaranteed a spot at this year's Devil's Night, which nearly sent him in tears. And, James provided him with immortality; all that was required was a sip of blood from his stash and a promise not to let all that blood from his kills go to waste. It felt so good. He felt healthy, carefree. He was content to spend the rest of his immortal life with James. 

"Oh, please just tell him you like him already," Liz complained as Winston stared longingly after March, who walked by and spared the bar a glance and a smile. Winston smiled back, before turning to Liz with a glare. 

“You realize that even if I  _ do  _ tell him, I’d be risking mine and possibly  _ his  _ life. The Countess would kill me,” Winston argued, not noticing that March was heading toward them. Liz smirked at him as Winston continued his rant. “It’s preposterous, as she doesn’t even love him, but he’s still incredibly loyal to her, and I do love him but I’m counteracting everything I’ve worked for by telling him.” 

“Telling who?” 

Winston nearly jumped out of his skin, spinning to face the man. “Uh--what do you mean? No one, of course. I--uh, I’m just going to--going to go...get ready for Devil’s Night, yes.” He ran off quickly, disappearing into the walls in a flash. March looked after him curiously. Liz sighed and shook her head. The bell rang at the front desk, and so she hurried off to answer. 

“How may I he--” She stopped in her tracks, seeing the man standing there, writing his name down in the check in book. The man looked up. 

“Devil’s Night. I have a standing reservation.” 

“Of course, Mr. Ramirez. My--My pleasure to welcome you to the Hotel Cortez. This is your second year joining us?”

“Third. I died in 2013,” Ramirez corrected. 

“Apologies. Let me show you to your room.” 

“I was hoping Manson would be joining us this year.” 

“Charlie hasn’t shuffled off his mortal coil yet. He’s still serving life in state prison,” Liz said. 

“Aw, that’s too bad.” 

They reached the door to his room. “Here’s your room, sir. The master has left a couple of... _ treats _ on the pillow.” Liz dangled the keys in front of him. 

“I don’t need a key.” 

“Help! Help me!” the woman screamed as she ran from her room. There was another man at the end of the hall. “There’s a killer after me!” 

“And two killers before you,” March said, grabbing the woman. “Ricky! You’ve found your presents. Taurus from Arizona. Marriott was full. Come! Finish her off.” 

 

“Two killers, eh, March? Where’s the other?” 

“Ah, yes! Winston, our newest edition. Tell me, do you remember those remarkable cases where they were carved from the inside?” 

“Of course. How could I forget?” 

“Well, the artist himself has decided to show himself! Winston, darling, why don’t you introduce yourself to one of your biggest fans, Richard Ramirez?” March called. Ramirez watched with awe as a man no taller than five inches landed on March’s shoulder, having descended from the ceiling on a thin rope. 

“Winston Tucker, at your service,” he said. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Winston. I’m a big fan of your work.” 

“Well, you’ll hear more about it tonight! It’s Winston’s first Devil’s Night!” March declared. Winston swelled with pride. “In fact, we’ve got  _ two _ first-timers tonight.”

  
  


John Lowe entered the room, and Winston watched with curiosity. He sat in his typical place on the chandelier, this time around not bothering to hide himself. He could see the glances in his direction, the majority of them from March. He watched Aileen Wuornos go up to John and try to apologize and get him to sit by her. 

“No, Aileen, John will sit where his name card is,” March told her. “You know we like to do things formally around here.” 

“Hey, suck my left tit, Clark Gable!”

“Ah, we’re all here now. Let’s sit; only so many hours in the night.” He rung the dinner bell. “John, you’re by the other John. John, you’re here. Ricky, here. Winston?” The small man in question looked up from where he’d locked eyes with John, tilting his head inquisitively. Everyone else looked up at him. “You’re wherever you’d like to be, since I don’t suppose you’d do very well with an entire chair to yourself.” 

Winston swung himself down, settling himself like a parrot on March’s shoulder. March smiled. “Absinthe! Our customary libation. To our special night and our new guests.” They all drank, and Winston declined the offered droplet from the end of March’s cup. 

“What is this? Who are you?” John asked after they’d all finished cheering. 

“I’m March. I built this hotel.” 

“The man who built this hotel died more than 85 years ago.” 

James sighed. “This is my problem with police officers. All you care about is evidence. Evidence, evidence, evidence. Until that evidence no longer fits the narrative you need to be true, at which point the evidence becomes an illusion, a mistake, a trick. You’ve lived in my hotel long enough, John. Seen enough evidence to know that the impossible becomes  _ very  _ possible here?” He gave a pointed look toward Winston before looking at the door. “You’re late!” 

“Too busy writing letters.” 

“I don’t get you, man. The real fun starts  _ after  _ you get caught, don’t you know that? I mean, giving yourself your own nickname, that’s not cool, dude. It’s not cool.” 

“Now, let’s all introduce ourselves,” March said as he sat down. 

“I’m John two, John Gacy. I’m from Norwood Park, Illinois. I own PDM Contractors--uh, PDM stands for Painting, Decorating, Maintenance--and I’m also a member of the Moose club. I mean, just because you’ve got 30 bodies buried in your crawlspace don’t mean you can’t have a really great rec room and be a respectable businessman.” March gestured to a man at the end of the table, who’d been eyeing John the whole time. 

“Uh, my turn? Okay. I’m uh, Jeffrey. Dahmer. From Milwaukee.” 

“Oh, John, I think he likes you! Oh, that is bad news for you. That’s how he picks ‘em, he finds the hottest guy in the room and then,” Aileen cackles, drawing a finger across her neck. 

“Alright. Zodiac. I never caught you, but I assumed you’d be dead by now. Dickheads like you don’t just retire from being assholes. And Gacy, you were killed by lethal injection 25 years ago. Dahmer, you were murdered in prison, deservedly. Aileen Wuornos, put to death in 2002 in Florida, and I know you,” John listed, pointing to Ramirez next, “because you’re from my hometown. Richard Ramirez, Night Stalker. You just died of cancer in your cell a few years back. What is this? Some kind of Halloween trick? What are you, actors?” 

“I invited you here tonight to help you, John. I’ve watched you, and it makes me sad because greatness is about vision, and you have made yourself blind to everything but what your eyes can see.” 

“You need to listen to this dude, John. He is the master. I mean, he taught us all. He’s a  _ genius,  _ like Galileo, or Peter Frampton.” 

“That’s why we come here every Devil’s Night. It’s like a tradition. It’s a real honor to be invited. Only the ones of us who really took the master’s advice gets an invite.”

“You wanna know why the little piggies took so long to catch me? Because one night, I stumbled into this place and I spent a few nights, and the master--he came into my room, and he beat the  _ crap  _ outta me,” Ramirez recalls, looking at the now smiling March pointedly, “and he told me that if I wanted to be a volume operation, then I needed to be indiscriminate; kill  _ anyone.  _ Your pattern needs to be  _ no  _ pattern.” Winston looked up curiously. 

“Guess I was out sick that day,” Gacy joked, laughing. 

“It’s not  _ funny _ , Gacy!” March suddenly yelled, startling Winston. He nearly fell from his perch, grabbing onto March’s collar. He stared up at him with wide eyes. “We are the Mount Rushmore of murder. We have reputations, codes of conduct. I’ve told you  _ how  _ many times; leave no evidence.” 

Winston was too busy staring afraid and curious at March to pay attention to Gacy’s argument. He could feel the eyes on him, but he paid them no mind, focusing on those plump lips, intrigued and intimidated by this man. It seemed there was much more to James Patrick March than what Winston had collected about him already. 

“Murder is one part perspiration, 10 parts preparation. I built this hotel for the sole purpose of  _ hiding  _ the evidence! All of my chutes and ladders. Have you seen them yet, John? Miracles of modern engineering. I never even knew that Winston even existed before, he’s so good at hiding,” March praised. Winston blushed, finally looking away from March as he continued. “Mr. Gacy here came to the Hotel Cortez when he was just a young man. 18 or 19.” 

“I was living in Vegas, and I wanted to see the Pacific, so I got in the old Buick and drove out for the weekend, and stayed here. 6 bucks a night.” 

“I showed him my secrets, he was good. Very good. But, imagine what he could have accomplished had he  _ really  _ listened to me. 33 bodies. He could have had  _ 333. _ ” Suddenly, John was being handcuffed by Gacy, and Winston looked around, confused. 

“That’s my trick; the handcuffs. Once I have ‘em cuffed, it’s pretty much all over.” 

“No need to worry, John. It’s the absinthe, dear boy.” Aileen tells her story of meeting March. Ms. Evers brings in salad, and Jeffrey refuses. Jokes are cracked, and Ramirez puts on an old record. 

“Ms. Evers, bring out the amuse-bouche, will you?” 

Jeffrey perks up, looking hungrily at the man Ms. Evers drags in. Gacy grabs him and settles him in a chair beside Jeffrey. “See, Jeffrey? Don’t I always take care of you? Don’t I?” Jeffrey grins. Winston throws his grappling hook up to the chandelier, pulling himself off of March’s shoulder. “Where are you going, darling?”

“Yeah, we don’t know your story.” 

Winston settles on the most visible branch of the chandelier. “My story is simple. I was born and raised right under your noses, quite literally. My family lived beneath the floorboards of this very room. My grandparents moved into this hotel when they were my age. Brought many others with them.” 

“So, where are these others you speak of?” 

“I killed them.” The room was stunned into silence. 

“How many were there?” Gacy asked. 

Winston pondered this, “Roughly 87, if I can remember correctly.” 

“And so, when all of them were dead, you moved on to humans. How do you do it?” 

This was it; the moment Winston had dreamed of. He dropped down from the chandelier once more, launching into a deep explanation of his latest kill; he described with great detail the feeling of the throat, and how the blood flowed down around him. He explained how he never spent too much time on the throat because then they would either choke on him or their own blood, and how that was no fun. He spoke of how mesmerizing the burning of the stomach acid was, brandished his scars. James fell in love with him more and more with every second. 

  
When John woke up, the attention was drawn away from Winston.

He raised his head up, looking to Jeffrey and his victim. “You should both be dead,” he muttered groggily. 

“Oh, no, he’s not dead. He’s the  _ un _ dead. I made him a zombie when I poured the acid in his brain,” Jeffrey explained. He turned to his victim. “You’re not gonna run away from me anymore.” 

“I’m yours forever, Jeffrey.” 

“This isn’t--This isn’t happening.” John wriggled in his chair. 

“I’m afraid we’ve lost our detective,” March said. “I thought he would appreciate this dark evil, given the line of work he’s in, but John is clearly not yet our kind.” 

“Forget him. I want a drink. To the master!” Ramirez declared, holding up his glass. 

“Ah, thank you.” March stood. “Thank you all for being here on Devil’s Night, but it is I who should be celebrating  _ you. _ I look around at you and I see the definition of American success. They write books about you. Make movies of your lives.” 

“Johnny Depp likes my paintings!” Gacy throws in. 

“Years after your death, people will continue to be enthralled. You’ve made your mark in history. Like the Iliad, your stories will live on forever.” March wiped a tear from his eye, and Winston settled beside his other hand and looked up at him, patting his finger. The larger man smiled down at him. “I consider you all my equals. Nothing would please me more if you could stay and join me...for dessert.” Everyone cheered as he rang the dinner bell again. Winston watched as Sally, the hotel’s resident drug addict, brought in a man. 

“Dessert! Almost forgot. Let me go put on my makeup,” Gacy cheered, running off. 

“He’s flying on an eight ball of China White,” Sally told March. Winston looked at her skeptically. He never liked her. “This will buy me a year of being left alone, right?” 

“As always,” March confirmed. Ms. Evers went around a set of knives. Everyone picked one. Winston stood from his spot, pulling out his own knife. March grinned at him. Gacy returned with his clown makeup on. “To us! The greatest killers of our time. This sacrifice bonds us together for eternity.” March turned him around and made to stab him, before catching Winston’s eye. The borrower smirked. 

“How about we let our newest edition go first? Show us your magic, darling.” He bowed to Winston, and pushed the man onto the table. Winston grinned maniacally, climbing onto his chest and walking slowly, deliberately, toward his mouth. 

“Open him up, would you?” he asked Aileen politely. She grinned, holding open his mouth. Winston scrunched up his nose. “Great, he  _ reeks.  _ Oh, darling, the things I do for you.” He winked at March before climbing in. 

The man choked, so Winston wriggled his way down quickly. He left the vocal chords alone, but cut a small part of his throat, preparing himself for the sweet screams. He made his way down, down to the stomach, landing with a satisfying splash in the stomach acid, just like he’d explained. He needed to work quickly; he didn’t want to keep this kill all to himself, and he could feel the impatience radiating from everyone. He cut away at the membrane of the man’s stomach, reaching the muscle of his abdomen. He listened to the screams, motivating him to move quicker so he could hear them from the outside. 

He cut away at the skin, and he saw light, and the angelic face of James Patrick March grinned at him. He pushed through, climbing back on top of the stomach, and he bowed. They all clapped, cheered, and he flushed under all the attention. March lifted him up, suddenly, and he nearly fell, grinning. He was lifted to the chandelier, and the rest of them attacked the screaming man with their knives. John screamed in protest, knocking his chair over. Sally took him away. Convinced him it was just a hallucination. 

But it wasn’t.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its short i know i'm sorry I'm gonna write more soon i swear

**Author's Note:**

> sorry its short, as usual  
> hope u enjoyed, ill get another chapter up soon


End file.
